The Handwriting on the Wall

 

Between today and tomorrow,

There is a paper-thin wall

Ignored and unseen by those

Caught up in the nuts and bolts

          of the daily grind

          of the clocks’ shaft and gear rotations,

Unable to decipher

          the handwriting on the wall,

Unable to imagine the effects

          of the age of reason, unraveling.

 

Caught up in the building of concrete and

          steel walls to block the natural flow

                    of ecosystems,

while the paper-thin messages,

          from the other side of today,

          fade in the sunlight

          and become indecipherable

                   cursive marks erased by neglect.

Caught up in the wheeling and dealing

          of scamming, robotic sounds

of the inhuman and mechanized

assembly of words broadcast

through the air,

false and unquestioned. 

         

Caught up in a joker’s quips,

          delusions of grandeur, and

          comic twisters,

they gather into laughing mobs,

          while the voice of tomorrow

          waits in the wings, whispering,

          “I told you so.”

 

©cmheuer, 2/2025

STORMS

  Storms break the silence of the day,

split the clouds and leave jagged edges,

throw thunderbolts like stones

skipping across pond water,

draw sheets of rain like curtains

over the windows.

 

Storms carry winds that ripple the torrents,

throw away all things disconnected,

howl at lightning channels that are hotter

            than the sun.

 

Storms break the surface of the day,

expose the raw breadth of light,

            the heavy weight of sound,

            and the endless depth of words,

                        knitted together out of bedlam,

                        before the skyline begins to clear,

                        wind spirals stop spinning,

                        and the silence of the day returns. 

 

©cmheuer, 11/2024

POLLEN ON THE LITTLE POND

 

Pollen grains float on the air;

green and yellow clouds

obscure and coat the landscape and water

in a haze of vague imagery

that unsettles the eyes’ mastery

of light and shadows.

 

They blockade the pond’s surface

          with strands of froth and sludge

                    that slowly move to the water’s edge

                             on wind drafts and water ripples.

 

Until there is a thick outline

          around a description of the surrounding trees

                    and a deep sky above. 

 

Until the pollen grains become embedded

          in the muddy sediment

                   where water meets field,

                             and millennia from now

                             core samples of earth

                                       will hold fossilized grains,

                                                 like dinosaur bones,

                                                          to let others know

                                    

                   What ancient flora

                           lived here in my time.

 

cmheuer©05/2024 

          

VANDALS

 

Too many kick down sand castles,

Stamp on towers and turrets,

Tear away curtain walls and battlements,

Drag their feet across mounds of sand,

Smirk and laugh, as they walk along

            the edge of the ocean.

 

Perhaps they do not see the builders,

Crouched along the shore

            with their buckets and shovels

Packing and sculpting sand into havens

For imaginations that see a world

Where builders outnumber vandals.

 

Where builders write, and

Ink is not smeared,

Paper is not torn, and

Centuries of truth building

Are not demolished. 

 

cmheuer©2/2024

 

Beethoven

 

The rains had soaked the fallen leaves and pine needles;

Birds and squirrels sat hushed on their feeders;

It was a quiet winter morning without any wind.

 

All had stopped as Beethoven’s sonatas played

To towering trees and their decayed leaf mounds,

To evergreens and unseen wild things, and

To patches of blue and grey sky

That appeared transfixed and devout,

As the notes completed their handwritten,

Penciled score from the depths

Of the mind of a man who would lose his hearing.

 

They all bowed as if in a prayer

To restore the music of the spheres,

While I read about war-torn countries

And the killing of their poets.

 

©cmheuer, 12/2023

AT A LOSS FOR WORDS

 

Words, untied from their moorings,

And cast adrift upon a meaningless sea,

 

Wind-tossed, wave-driven,

Empty hulls that heave in rough waters,

Sail into cyclones and jet streams,

Crash onto rocky clifts, wash up on sandy beaches,

 

Disconnected, senseless,

Bandied about in mass deceit and manipulation,

Empty husks of sounds floating around,

One voice to another,

until

Nothing is known,

          and

All are speechless.

 

©cmheuer, November, 2023

 

A BLIGHT

 

 

An ancient oak, larger than life,

          Added a new ring each year that I grew;

          its branches stretched

                    higher and wider than

                   my near-sighted eyes could see. 

 

Its summer canopy kept me cool.

Its fall acorns fed pigs and squirrels.

Its history lay hidden under

          thick layers of bark. 

 

Its roots spread onto the dirt road,

          as if it could travel, too,

          keeping our stories in its ring cycles.

 

Then standing without new leaves,

          with branches breaking,

 

Falling before me.

 

©cmheuer, 7/2023

VERNAL EQUINOX

 

Light is different now,

          not just that the day is as long as the night,

          but that it strikes head on

          instead of arriving at an angle.

 

It has a new clarity,

washes off blurred beginnings,

creates a sharp focus,

exposes cherry blossoms destroyed

by a night’s deep freeze,

          highlights bird and squirrel feeding frenzies,

          unveils the forest floor bare of underbrush,

          warms the beech trees’ tawny leaves

                   still branched and shifting

in the wind before

they fall.

 

It stretches out the length of the trees

                   to greet the stars,

          sheds images of small spaces,

peers into deep wells of mystery

that surrounded long nights,

          uncovers what we can know,

                   all the way back to the beginning

of the first light.

 

 

©cmheuer, 3/2023

UPHEAVAL

 We balance on a transient tightrope strung across

          a crevasse too wide to bridge,

We sway in a catastrophic wind listening

          for earthen tremblors and volcanic explosions,

We tremble from visions of apocalyptic

wild fires, tornadoes, droughts, and floods,

We scan the horizon for an asteroid impact  

          like the K-Pg mass extinction event,

We calculate that the sun will become a red giant

          in five billion years and engulf the earth,

We hypothesize the end of our universe and

          baryonic matter,

But above all we sense the aggression and violence

         of our own kind whose maniacal dance

wobbles the high wire and causes us to

lose our equilibrium and slip into oblivion

like virtual particles

popping into and out of existence.

 

©cmheuer, March, 2023    

A DISTANT POINT

 

On the horizon of sleep

there is a distant point,

          evasive and unknown,

because it is never remembered

after being found,

 

After a long search

          through blankets tossed and turned,

After mantras recited

          and silent lullabies sung,

After eyes are closed tight

          And breaths taper off,

After sheep are counted,

          the point is untouched,

          while the hands of the clock

                   crawl past midnight.

 

The sunlight strays into the window

          and ends a dream remembered,

          but that distant point found

          after a long, restless struggle

          is still unknown.

 

cmheuer ©12/2022

RUBY-THROATED HUMMINGBIRDS

 

 

It is the sudden movements through the air

     that catch my eagle eyes,

        the wild dart and loop,

           the calligraphy marks,

             sky written and invisible,

     amid midair hovering, feeding, and fighting

     with wings that beat

          thousands of times per minute

            and hum louder 

        than the earth’s quiet murmur.

 

It is the flying jewels, neck feathers,

glistening in the light,

the ruby reds in a vibrant sun,

that draw me into their supernatural memories

of past migrations,

of rich nectars and flowers

along hundreds of miles

between breeding and wintering grounds.

 

It is the heralding of spring and fall,

without pomp and circumstance,

that their appearance and disappearance

foretell with a sharper vision than my eagle eyes

will ever know as I wander from

room to room, window to window,

in search of their beating wings and sword-like beaks

when the flowers blossom and fade. 

 

 

 

cmheuer, © October, 2022

 

 

PINE CONES

 

Scattered across the yard in large numbers,

scales open and seedless,

cast off from high branches,

and dropped to earth,

their prehistoric commands completed.

 

Grounded pine cones wobble as they roll

across the fall’s earthen floors,

a crop for woodpeckers and squirrels,

a reminder of a tree’s past decade,

fallen nurseries of seeds dispersed,

still littering as seasons pass.   

 

Stumbling blocks for feet set forward to clear

 a footpath besieged with

large, broken branches,

                    and split or uprooted trees,

                    fallen remnants of winter storms and

March winds.

 

A fog of heavy, green pollen fills the air,

          obscures the footpath, littered with

                  the rejected and discarded,

the damaged and broken

bygones.

          Too many to stack neatly in a pile,

          Too thick to walk through and ignore,

          Too heavy to push aside and move on.

 

The annual shedding of old things

        to make room for the new

            becomes thunderous

                as the path becomes longer. 

         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©cmheuer, 5/2022

OVERCAST

 

Pale light, cast over many days,

spins illusions that bury truth and beauty

in abandoned cobwebs covered with dust;

          fades out every scene to grey

                   until sunlight becomes a memory.

 

 A bluffing wind is the only sound,

          nothing but a parrot’s hollow shriek,

          carried across the fallen trees’ branches,

          unheard among blurred apparitions

          drawn upon the slates of chilled, ashen days. 

 

Blazing light, recalled, is obscure and deflected,

          floats behind the eyes as shadows of the past,

          implies that truth is garish and beauty fleeting.

The haze of doubt is all that is known

          and overcast images boast about being 

                out of focus.

 

And thus, we wander on cloudy days

among ghostly sprites, whose malice hovers 

        above the morning sun rise 

            and brings ill-fortune,

                             a plague, and the chaotic chants of

                                      a grifter’s mistruths.

 

 

©cmheuer, November, 2021

TWO SQUIRRELS IN A HICKORY TREE

 

        A second-story window elevates both eyes

to upper leaf clusters;

makes visible the motion of leaves,

that move out of harmony

with the tree’s foliage sheath, 

that uniformly sways in the wind

or stands still in tranquil air;

transfixes focus on what is different from the rest;

raises questions about tree sprigs

that jerk in fits and starts,

sudden, sweeping twists of a single twig,

discordant flutters of a second twig,

without any bird flight near the tree

          until there is a pause in the shaking branches.

 

Two eastern gray squirrels

descend the tree trunk headfirst

before the fall’s hickory nutmeats,

grown in light brown shells and green husks,

weight down branches and fall to the ground,

the boughs reach out for the sun

without stirring the air.

 

Motionless again,

the tree breathes in and out

as if in deep meditation

or in the eye of a storm.

 

 

©cmheuer, 2021 

Days of Rain

 

Days of rain close in spaces

Shrink them beyond recognition

Glaze them with damp water colors

and translucent light. 

 

Water soaks deep into the earth,

Ponds around pines, oaks, and maples,

Washes away their fibrous underground grip,

Targets the tallest, oldest trees,

Fells their crowns,

Upends their root circles.

 

Long, loosened threads sway in the air,

Thin, string fringes swing

From hoisted mud clods,

Caked around broken, thick roots,

leaving craters filled with muddy water.

 

Fallen trunks and their large branches

Scatter the low light that travels close to the ground

As tree canopies open to the sound of their swan songs

For a brief illusion of light before the deep

Fog rolls in and closes in the spaces

Among the trees and along the surface

of the earth, shaken.

 

Waiting for the passage of too many heavy clouds

And the slow return of the sun that can shed light

On the vines and saplings that will obscure

The oldest and the tallest trees, brought down to earth

by days of rain.

 

 

©cmheuer, April, 2021

 

TWIDDLING MY THUMBS

 

Waiting in the car

Parked on brown winter grass outside a race track stadium,

like thousands of others,

Guided into rows by parking attendants.

An old Honda beside a new Prius, Lexus, and Lincoln.

Engines off and silent.

 

Raceway.  Vaccine written on the Gate 4 Marquee.

Lot D2.  4 Coca Cola signs, bottle shaped,

Each one the side of a box wrapped around a light pole.

Burnt orange roofs on stadium stairs.

Ticket signs and advertisements. 

 

When it was a State Fairground,

Exhibition buildings with cows, sheep, and pigs,

groomed for competition, covered the fields.   

Smaller buildings were lined with home-canned foods

and home-sewn quilts.

Blue, red, or white ribbons were coveted and displayed. 

 

Transcending all were the ferris wheels,

carousels, and bumper cars,

Tents filled with carnival games and shouting barkers,

cotton candy, and corn dogs,

Reflections distorted everything in the House of Mirrors,

While musicians filled open-air stages with music. 

 

Long awaited fall days spent walking

From tent to tent,

From building to building,

Dusty feet and eyes barely blinking

until seated back in the car with eyes closed

Head and shoulder leaning against the car window

For the long trip back home to cow barns and silos.

 

Until a parking attendant used arm and hand signals

To move a parked row into a long, slow-moving queue

Towards a makeshift vaccine dispensary.

 

© cmheuer, 2021

MASKS

 

Faces in their simplest form,

Scrubbed clear of paint

          or wordless expressions,

Reduced to geometric shapes

          and digital bits,  

Abide by surface recognition as an intent.

 

But faces in their protean forms,

Hidden in night shadows,

Protected with masks to shield the breath,

Covered for transformation,

Disguised to conceal,

Veiled in secrecy,

Leave exposed the deep, blazing eyes

that are “the windows to our souls” and

harbors of fear and suspicion.   

 

©cmheuer, November, 2020

 

 

TUG OF WAR

Just a game, played with a long rope.

Two separate teams

Pulled in opposite directions

until a line is crossed.

Stamped in memory like wax seals,

badges of wins and losses.

Not beehive splitting swarms,

nor super organisms,

nor colonies.

just schoolyard competitions,

teams dragged back and forth,

for success or defeat,

their strength lost in a tug of war.

And they carry it forward,

the pattern copied and repeated,

pinned onto every endeavor.

Sacred, shabby archetype,

preserved in stone and paper,

lies beneath conflict and bones of contention.

© cmheuer, 7/2020

MONOLITHS

Giant, carved, walking stones 
     with their backs to the ocean,

Their large eyes filled 
     with white coral and black obsidian,

Standing, mute and still, 
     in the light of the moon or the sun,

Their sculptors’ remnant bones 
     lying along lava cave floors.

Vessels holding sacred spirits 
     toppled after centuries

Raised again with silent, aged faces

Born out of porous, fleeting volcanic tuff,

Weathered and disintegrating, 
     obscure and beguiling.

Ancestral vigilance walks over 
     each new generation,

Diligently follows each era’s stepping stones,

Rolls up narrow carpets that lead from

Ancient memories to prophecies

Set upon the quiet lips of sepia images

Framed and smiling

For they know what we cannot know. 

© cmheuer, 2020

TURMOIL

Some days disorder surfs the wind,

sifts through flaws in window frames,

infects every surface and breath,

tears apart wanton chatter,

and spells out gibberish upon the walls,

like a maniacal howl of laughter.

Discord dominates,

cacophony drowns out symphonies,

undergrowth rises from the earth

spinning around

stems, stalks, and broken sidewalks,

until passages are shut down

and light is dimmed. 

Illusions of uniformity fade.

Symmetry disappears.

Knowledge becomes a memory.

Angles shift and rearrange into

mosaics of sharp-eyed views askew,

like Picasso’s portraits.

© cmheuer, 2020